I reckon he'll be
'conservative' enough after this. And now I'll snooze. Steer her for
Ragged Point, yonder, Whatcoat, an' when you git thar wake me. It's
clear broad inlet all the way; an' remember, nigger, I sleep and shoot,
on hair triggers!"
With his pistols in his hand, Johnson lay down in the cabin a few feet
from the helmsman, and tried to see and sleep at once. He had been
without rest for many nights, and sleep soon bound him in its own clevis
and manacles.
When he awoke, so deep had been his slumber that he could not recall for
a moment where he was. The tiller was unmanned, the stars shone in the
cabin hatchway, a cold bilge-water draft blew through the old hulk, and,
as he dragged himself up the steps, he saw tall woods near by, and heard
the voice of solemn pines.
The vessel was aground; wild geese were making jubilant shrieks as they
cut the water with their fleecy wings, like cameo engraving; the outlaw
gazed and gazed, and finally muttered:
"Deil's Island, or I'm a billy noodle! I run from it the last time I was
yer, an' my blood runs cold to be yer agin; my daddy got his curse from
this camp-meetin'."
Taking speed from his apprehensions, Johnson slid back the hatchway and
leaped into the hold, starlight and moonlight following him, and nothing
did they reveal there except one man, peacefully sleeping upon his face,
as Phoebus had last been seen.
Pages:
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626